


Loyalties

by LoveThemFiercely



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, At Least I Hope So Poor Things, But Didn't Know It, But Measures Will Be Taken, Cliffhangers, Discovery, Falling In Love, Finn Needs A Hug, Finn is Perceptive, He's Not Going to Get One, Idiots in Love, Inexperienced Dopheld Mitaka, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Loyalty, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mitaka Is Just Terrible at Self-Care, Mitaka is Not, No Idea What They're Doing, Oblivious Dopheld Mitaka, Pillowfort Rarepairs Prompt, Poor Dopheld Mitaka, Sexual Inexperience, Social Anxiety, Sparring, There Will Probably Be More Though, Touch-Starved, Touching, Tuanul, based on a prompt, dopheld mitaka needs a hug, love and angst, poor Finn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 00:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveThemFiercely/pseuds/LoveThemFiercely
Summary: Lieutenant Mitaka has everything under control.  He keeps things, everything, going, including General Hux; it's his duty and his pride. As long as he's got the information and people operate as expected, the ship is a well-oiled machine and no one notices who's responsible.  That's how it should be.  Noticing one of the Stormtroopers and the way he moves is just, well, it's a thing that happens. Then Captain Phasma decides the bridge crew needs to learn how to defend themselves in hand-to-hand combat and Mitaka's world is turned upside-down.  He didn't think he liked surprises.  He wasn't entirely right; FN-2187 is a constant surprise, and Mitaka likes him just fine.





	Loyalties

**Author's Note:**

> Pillowfort Rarepairs Challenge February 2019, Angst and Love
> 
> I liked the idea of a Dopheld Mitaka who'd grown up in a boisterous household full of siblings, but understood the world in numbers and mental connections and making sure things WORK. We already know FN-2187 wasn't your typical Stormtrooper; some empathy and perception in him led him down the path to becoming Finn. This is what happens when you put them together.

“....incorporate that into the schedule, Lieutenant.”  Mitaka snapped to attention, willing away the crimson stain he could feel trying to infiltrate his face.  He suspected he was largely unsuccessful. The General had something for him to do, and he hadn’t been _paying attention._  Cold horror fought the heat in his cheeks.  That was his purpose, to handle whatever the General needed, and he was failing.  

Now he had to explain himself, because he had no idea what was supposed to be added to the schedule.  Was he ill? That would lower his job performance to less than acceptable standards. He made a note on the datapad to check his symptoms:  flush, possibly indicative of fever, difficulty concentrating...elevated heartbeat and irregular respiration, interesting. An exam in medical would be in order, just to be certain, so he added it.  He wouldn’t want the General to become ill if he were contagious, no matter how conscientious Mitaka was about washing his hands and general sanitation.

“My...my apologies, sirs, General Hux, Captain Phasma, I was…”  What _had_ he been doing?  He’d been watching the troopers spar.  Well, one in particular. Stormtroopers were supposed to be identical, anonymous; but Mitaka would have known this one anywhere.   It was fascinating to watch his smooth motions, flowing one into another like perfectly meshed gears. He was effortless in handling any and all of the trooper’s varied arsenal, and his fighting style was natural, like breathing, or dancing.  

Did Stormtroopers dance?  Of course not, or it would have been in their schedule.  His sentence stuttered back to life. “...considering whether our inspection parameters for the Stormtroopers needed to be revised.  Captain Phasma, are there any changes we need to make in the standard inspections? Incorporation of new equipment? Have any of their drills been changed?  I see there haven’t been any changes in uniform regulations.” Was that enough to cover his lapse in attention?

Phasma frowned.  How he knew this, Mitaka had no idea.  Her helmet was still firmly and shiningly in place, her voice distorted; but she was frowning, he knew.  “All of the inspection checklists are up to date, Lieutenant. But we were discussing combat training for the bridge crew.  Combat may not be a primary function for those on the bridge, but that’s no reason to tolerate the crew becoming...soft.” The tilt of her head made him wonder if she were looking at him when she said that word.

“Of course, sir.”  The response was automatic.  It was what he always said, and then backed it up by making things happen. That was what he did.  The sense of what she’d said didn’t land until a few seconds later. Combat training? For the bridge crew?   _His_ bridge?  But that meant...oh, no. No, no, no.  Fighting was not any of the things at which Mitaka was competent, not even close.  Invoices, schedules, supplies and budgets, numbers and data and the appropriate background research and information for any situation; those were his areas of expertise.  Personal combat was...imprecise, disorderly; _messy_.

He’d barely passed the marksmanship requirements for his current position, and he’d immediately set out to demonstrate his administrative skills in hopes of a bridge position. Once he’d got that, Mitaka had refused promotion on several occasions.  This was where he belonged, making sure that the great engine of the First Order, especially as represented in the person of General Armitage Hux, went humming efficiently along without a single hitch. General Hux was nodding.

“It’s important that any of the crew be prepared to defend themselves, their vessel, and the First Order hand to hand if such a thing were to become necessary.  It’s one of the risks of...uncivilized opponents.” The curl of the General’s lip made his opinion of those opponents perfectly clear, his initial concern about the welfare of the bridge crew lost in his simmering hatred of the Resistance and its barbarism.  

“Yes, sir.  I’m updating everyone’s schedule as we speak.  Well, not yours, sir, of course.” General Hux wouldn’t need combat training.  He was well-versed in the use of the blaster at his hip and the monomolecular blade for which Mitaka had arranged very specific revisions in his uniform tailoring.  And it boggled the mind to think of the General as anything less than deadly. Whether he knew how to throw a punch didn’t matter. You wouldn’t get close enough to find out without being on the other end of something very sharp.

“…this trooper in particular, General.  He shows promise in a number of areas. Combat, of course, but his leadership and strategic potential measure very well in testing.  We may wish to keep him in mind for future promotion, after he’s risen through the ranks, of course. FN-2187 is his designation.”

Mitaka was staring at an open file on his datapad. It had nothing to do with the way he had been watching this trooper...or why, he sternly reminded himself. Captain Phasma had made a point of bringing him to the General's attention. It was only natural that Mitaka, his adjutant, would familiarize himself with FN-2187's records, in case General Hux had any questions.

And if that file so happened to contain his ID image, bare headed, helmet held in his equally uncovered hands?  Well, that was all to the good. He could hardly keep General Hux informed about a trooper if he couldn't pick him out of a lineup, for stars' sake.  How FN-2187 managed to look both nervous and determined in a standard ID photo was beyond him. Most people ended up looking sort of...pickled, like a lab specimen.  Somehow, though, the terrible standard lighting for ID images had picked out the angle and set of his jaw. A shadow had turned his eyes dark as the endless night outside the viewports, laced with sparks of stars.

Mitaka shook himself back to the present; the time allotted for this inspection was drawing to a close.  “Don’t forget, sir, you have a meeting in 40 minutes regarding trading and mining rights for Mygeeto. The primary delegate has just been presented with a grandchild.  Acknowledgement protocols have been forwarded to your datapad.” General Hux nodded, hands clasped behind his back, at parade rest as though he were about to be inspected.  That was an absurd idea. He would never appear other than perfect. Mitaka would see to that.

\---

It was one of those nights, as it happened.  The decibel alarm he’d surreptitiously added to the General’s quarters sounded at 0300.  Mitaka sighed and slipped into the casual clothes and shoes he kept on the chair next to his bed, padding down the hallway toward General Hux’s quarters.  The odd trooper he passed made no indication of or remark regarding his presence; they were the ones usually assigned to these corridors at this time of night for security or sanitation, and by now they were used to seeing him take this route at odd times in the middle of the sleep cycle.  Mitaka had familiarized himself with their files. They wouldn’t be any trouble.

The General either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t bothered to remove the override that allowed Mitaka to use the palm pad to enter his quarters, any more than he’d ever acknowledged any of this.  That suited Mitaka just fine. He moved quietly toward the bed. General Hux was sitting bolt upright, eyes fixed, unseeing, on something that existed only for him. The hiss of the opening door hadn’t drawn his attention.  It was a bad one, then.

Mitaka headed for the ‘fresher and programmed it for a hot bath, just body temperature.  A pass by the kettle and hot plate at the General’s in-quarters desk started water for tea.  He shifted from foot to foot waiting for the hot water to be ready, then added a substantial dose of sugar to the tea once he’d made it.  By day the General disdained sweetener in his cups of strong caf and bitter tea, but this was entirely different. He tried his best to ignore the low mutterings from the bed.  He’d listened, just the once, the first time; but it wasn’t his place to know, aside from what he needed to keep everything, including his General, running in peak form.

It had initially been a bit of a shock when he’d come to deliver an urgent communication, wondering why General Hux hadn’t responded to the comm signal as usual, and heard something that would have been a _scream_ , if it had been louder. He’d used emergency protocol codes to override the door, altered so that no one else would be alerted until he’d figured out what was happening, and discovered the General standing in the middle of the room, glassy-eyed and struggling for breath, but still asleep.

He hadn’t heard Mitaka speak, and he’d flinched away from a hand on his arm as though it were a blow.  All of the rough murmur that had been decipherable was “ _Father”_ and “ _don’t, please_ ” and “ _I can do better_ ”.  As adjutant, Mitaka was already in charge of scheduling exams and any necessary medical treatment and had full access to General Hux’s medical records; it hadn’t taken much to connect the dots of ancient, healed fractures and old scars with the subject of the General’s nightmares.

A few adjustments and a bit of a learning curve later, and Mitaka was handling this like it was just another day’s cup of caf or the necessary cleaning and pressing of a uniform.  The comm signal had been set to increase its volume during the sleep cycle, for emergency messages only. The decibel alarm had been easy enough to program, sounding an alert in Mitaka’s own quarters at any unusual change in sound levels in the General’s.  And the rest was what he was doing right now; heavily sugared tea, a bath waiting when he was fully awake, and Millicent.

Mitaka stopped on his way back to the bed to scoop the cat out of her bed.  Used to this by now, as much as he was, she didn’t protest. Deposited in the General’s lap, she merely started purring and kneading his thighs through the fabric of his pajama pants and blanket.  A few taps of Mitaka’s datapad filled the room with a low mix of wordless vocalizations and ocean noises; it would stop itself a short time after he’d left.

As labored breaths slowed to a more normal pace, the wide green eyes blinked, their gaze turning down to the rumbling feline before flicking up in Mitaka’s direction.  He was never sure how much of this General Hux remembered the next day, so he limited himself to “Your tea, General. There’s a bath waiting in the ‘fresher when you’re finished.”  He handed over the mug and waited as it was gulped down at a rapid pace and the mug set on on the bedside table. If the General was coherent enough to speak, it was time to leave and go back to his own interrupted rest.  

“...Lieutenant.”  One slim, pale hand stroked over the orange fur.  “Dismissed.” That was his cue. Everything could go on as it should, now, in the morning.  The ship, and the Order, would keep operating at peak efficiency, as they were meant to do. He would be correct, invisible, and discreet, as he was trained to be.  It was all part of the job. And the job was what he did, what he was, and he was damn good at it.

\---------

He was late.  Mitaka was _never_ late.  He’d had no other option but to schedule his first combat training session for 0500 the next day.  Well, the same day, he supposed. There simply hadn’t been another opening in his schedule. Admittedly, he’d also dithered a bit over what, exactly, to wear.  He wasn’t sure why, he’d written the dress protocol for these sessions himself as part of assigning the appointments. The only thing he hadn’t done was assign individual troopers to members of the bridge crew; that was Captain Phasma’s department.  Loose clothing, suitable for free movement, casual footwear to be removed for the duration of training. Exactly, as it happened, what he’d been wearing two hours earlier for his trip down the corridor.

He might have made it, if he’d run.  He hadn’t. Running was against regulations in a non-emergency situation, and Mitaka’s anxiety at being late did not qualify as an emergency, he knew.  So he walked, and it was 0503 when he arrived at the training room. He was going to have to give himself an official reprimand. Later, when he wouldn’t compound the offense by working on official paperwork when he was meant to be doing...whatever he was going to be doing next.  Which, evidently, was gaping at his instructor, whose face was thankfully turned almost entirely away from him. Mitaka hastily closed his mouth as the trooper set down his helmet and began removing his armor, plate by plate. That jawline was unmistakable.

FN-2187 turned as though he’d suddenly become aware of Mitaka’s presence.  Had he made a noise? Then the trooper _smiled_.  There it was again.  The change in his breathing and heart rate.  He made a mental note for tomorrow’s medbay checkup.  

“Lieutenant...Dopheld Mitaka?”  The hesitation was accompanied by a glance at the datapad resting on a nearby table.  Mitaka nodded. “Okay. You know what you’re here to learn?”

Of course he did.  “Yes. Captain Phasma indicated that the bridge crew needed additional training in hand to hand combat.”  Additional training, as though he’d had any to start. “I made the appointments myself.”

FN-2187 grinned at him.  Why did he keep doing that?  “That’s right, you’re General Hux’s adjutant, aren’t you?”  He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do that. I’ve seen enough of his schedule from the bodyguard roster to know it can’t be easy to manage.  And...never mind.” He turned to pick up a pair of wooden staves from a rack in the corner. “So you’re the reason we’re doing this at 0500, huh?”

Mitaka could feel himself flush.  That too, again? “We were meant to be.  It was the only opening in my schedule. I apologize for my tardiness.  It was unacceptable and it won’t happen again.”

FN-2187 was looking at him with...discomfort?  “No, hey, that’s not what I meant. Were you late?  I didn’t even notice. But it sounds like you’re busy.  I guess we should get started.”

 

\---------

 

They started with patterns.  Those he could handle. It was all about patterns.  Schedules and maintenance and sleep and recreation, they were all patterns that Mitaka understood as naturally as he drew air into his lungs and let it out again.  He found, irritatingly, that his muscles did not comprehend the patterns as easily as his mind. That was frustrating. But FN-2187 assured him that it was merely a matter of repetition.

 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Lieutenant.  I’ve been practicing these same forms since before I can consciously remember.  You’ve only been at this for a little while. Here,” he stepped (unfairly graceful, that) over to the weapons rack, “take one of these back to your quarters so you can practice whenever you have a free moment, and you’ll find that you’ve gotten better at it the next time you see me.”  

 

There were a few things wrong in that statement that Mitaka should probably correct, like “free moment” and the idea that he was likely to spend a lot of time just hanging about in his quarters...doing what?  But, precisely as he should be clarifying right now, there was no time. The general had an early morning meeting, which meant Mitaka did too. “I...it’s the end of our session. I’ve got to get going.” It was one of the few times during their training that his instructor wasn’t smiling.  He didn’t smile, either, when he demonstrated the moves himself, his face taking on a deadly, focused gravity; and there was something else, an expression that Mitaka only saw when it was time for the day’s training to end. He thought, under any other circumstances, it might have been disappointment.

 

He checked the chronometer on the wall and blanched.  He’d barely have time to get back in uniform. “I’ve got to change, and,” he glanced down at the droplets of sweat still dripping from the ends of his hair onto the mat, “I’m going to need a shower.”  Why was he still here? There was no need to explain exactly what he was going to be doing for the next half-hour. It wasn’t as though the rest of his day’s schedule was important to the Trooper. And he already knew what FN-2187 was going to be doing.  He’d written all the troopers’ schedules. He’d only memorized one of them, though, he thought, feeling suddenly off-balance.

 

His performance that day wasn’t quite up to his own standards, though the General was kind enough not to say anything about the lapse.  Mitaka could tell, though; he was just a fraction slower, less _present_ , than he ought to be, than he expected of himself.  He’d almost forgotten to take the formal uniform rank, insignia, and decorations from the table where General Hux had left them after the diplomatic videoconference, so they could be returned to their proper place.  He was lucky his superior was so tolerant. Medical had given him a clean bill of health at his appointment, though. He’d just have to put more effort into his work.

 

\---------

 

He lowered his staff, then dropped it to the mat, finding himself with his hands on his hips.  “What are you doing?! That wasn’t next.”

 

FN-2187 frowned at him, puzzled.  “What..?” Mitaka could feel his face turning red, like it used to when the sibs were roughhousing and he was trying to study.  He didn’t care much for the distinct whine in his own voice or the defensive way he was crossing his arms, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

 

“That last move, that wasn’t next.  Next is the left leg sweep, followed by the high-low strike and the disabling move.  That move you just made belongs in an entirely different pattern, the one we practiced three sessions ago, after the upward block and extended strike.  You made the wrong move.” He uncrossed his arms and picked up the staff, going through the two totally separate sequences to illustrate what he meant. Stupid.  Of course FN-2187 knew them, he’d taught them to Mitaka himself. But then why had he done the wrong one?

 

FN-2187 watched him, his face changeable, mercurial as usual.  Puzzled...amused...proud? It was always hard to tell. It was easier when people told you what they were thinking, or what they wanted; or better yet, just made a requisition.  “Okay. Let’s think about that for a minute. First of all, nicely done; you perfectly reproduced the sequence of maneuvers, the form.” Mitaka shrugged off the praise. Well of course he had, he’d been practicing it, hadn’t he?  He certainly wouldn’t be much use as an adjutant if he couldn’t remember a couple of 20- or 30-part sequences. “But...what do you mean, I made the wrong move? What is it you think you’re learning here?” He regarded Mitaka with seemingly genuine interest in the answer, leaning on his practice staff.

 

Shouldn’t he know?  Why was he asking? “Patterns.  I’m learning patterns. So I can execute them without an error if I encounter a combat situation.  Isn’t that why Captain Phasma gave us this assignment?” Had he not properly understood the material?

 

FN-2187 wiped sweat off his face with his sleeve, then tilted his head.  “Okay, let’s try this another way. You studied strategy, right? Officer candidates do.  Ran ship-to-ship combat simulations? How did you do?” His tone was encouraging, inviting Mitaka to share his history.

 

“Well enough, I suppose.”  That wasn’t strictly correct.  A ninety-two percent success rate hadn’t put any black marks on his record, but personally it had been less than satisfying.  

 

The trooper nodded, as though he’d expected that answer.  “And what did you do when something surprised you, in the simulation?”  He waited patiently for the next answer.

 

“I...didn’t.  The simulations were programmed using the standard strategic guides for the course material, historically significant battles, and included the entirety of the requisite gambits and their responses for the class.  So I read them.” Evidently he’d missed a few, hence the ninety-two percent success rate. That, and the simulations were programmed to include the occasional mechanical failure. That was never going to happen on this ship.

 

FN-2187’s eyes widened.  “Let me get this straight.  You...memorized all the possible scenarios, so you’d know exactly how to respond to every conceivable variation?”  He sounded surprised.

 

Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be done?  “I...yes. Why?” His arms were crossed again, this time over the staff.

 

The trooper shook his head.  “Oh, boy. Okay, suddenly I get why you’re so good at your job.”  He paused, considering. “You’re not going to like this. Combat in real life is...messy.  Your opponents may be unpredictable.” He was right. Mitaka did not care for that at all. “Now that you’ve learned...memorized, apparently….the basics, I’m going to change things, switch them around on you, so you can learn to respond to your opponent when they do something you don’t expect.  Look,” he leaned in, earnest, “this isn’t a dance.” He flushed. “At least, I don’t think this is how a dance would go. I’ve never...never mind.” Well, that answered that question.

 

“Your opponent,” he never used the word _enemy_ , Mitaka had noticed, always _opponent_ , “is going to want to surprise you.  They want to throw you off-balance. If you can, um, spontaneously apply the moves you’ve learned, then you can use them as a response to whatever it is your opponent does next.  If you only know how to use them in a specific sequence, then whether you can defend yourself--whether you stay _alive_ ” (he sounded very concerned about that part of the explanation)”--is entirely dependent on who’s better at memorization.  That’s no way to run a battle.” He sounded...exasperated? Worried?

 

“Here’s what I want you to do.  You mentioned historical battles, right?”   Mitaka nodded. “Good. I want you to go find some biographies and descriptions of history’s most brilliant strategists.  Then I want you to come back and tell me how many times the successful ones were described as unpredictable, as opposed to the number of times they were described as by-the-book.  Okay?” He could do that. That was research. “Then,” there was more? “I want you to create your own sequences, your own patterns. Use the maneuvers I’ve taught you to make patterns I haven’t taught you, maybe even ones I don’t know.  Come back and show me. Got it?”

 

That would be harder.  But it was just a matter of linking the maneuvers into a logical order.  “Yes, of course. I’ll have them ready for our next session.” He’d have to lose some sleep.  There was no help for it.

 

\----------

 

The first time he demonstrated the new patterns he’d made, there was a flicker of surprise and another one of those strangely unbalancing grins.  Mitaka had already given him the statistics on unpredictable commanders, and he’d made the new sequences good and complicated, he knew. But he realized soon enough that the patterns were still dependent on the other man doing what Mitaka expected him to do next.  They were still patterns. What FN-2187 wanted him to do instead was something he still didn’t quite understand. “I want you to respond to your opponent’s move as it happens, Lieutenant.”

 

His instructor was unfailingly patient, smiling upside-down at him where Mitaka lay prone, on his back on the mat.  The leg sweep had come as a surprise to him, since his pattern had called for a grapple to come next. “Look, have you ever seen two high-ranking, really experienced personal combatants spar?”  He hadn’t. It wasn’t something that would have occurred to him to watch. “Oh, you’re in for a treat, then. I just happen to know...Okay. Today’s lesson is a field trip. C’mon.” FN-2187 was all enthusiasm, practically vibrating in place.  He held out a hand.

 

Mitaka stared at it for a moment.  He supposed it wasn’t any different than having his stance adjusted or his form corrected.  He took the hand, capable and callused with work and what he knew were constant training bouts; his own were soft, if quick enough, he supposed.  The hand was withdrawn once he’d got to his feet, and he found himself regretting its absence, which was very strange. FN-2187 beckoned him. “Follow me.”

 

Before Mitaka quite knew what was happening, he was in the larger, open trooper training area.  It was crowded and sweaty and loud and in all other ways completely awful. Spectators were gathered around the two combatants, cheering and offering suggestions.  It was oddly ...boisterous. Did this happen often? Both parties were still in their armor. He didn’t know the shorter of the pair, but the taller, well, there was no mistaking the chrome exterior of Captain Phasma herself.  Did they usually spar in their armor? That would make sense, since any actual fighting would include it.

 

Mitaka watched as the two circled each other, then leapt to meet in the middle of the mat.  He was puzzled. Nothing really seemed to be happening.

 

“So, when both fighters are experienced, it’s a little different.” A ghost of voice and breath made this announcement directly behind his right ear, making him shiver.  It _was_ very loud in here, there wouldn’t have been much point in shouting.  “They’ve both already mastered all of the moves. At this point, it’s a matter of anticipating what your opponent will decide to use, and what the corresponding counter would be.  Except that they, the opponent, they’re doing that at the same time.” Captain Phasma feinted slightly to one side with her hands. Her opponent (he was using that word now too, Mitaka noticed) twitched to the opposite side with his leg, and they went back to studying each other.

Air moved against Mitaka’s ear again.  It made him want to rub at his hair, and also to turn around and look at the trooper’s face, and...he wasn’t really sure what he wanted to do.   “So it doesn’t really look like a fight at all. I mean, eventually they’ll get to the hitting and throwing and all of that; but the real battle is _mental_.  You follow?  From those tiny movements, sometimes from no movement at all, they know what the other one is going to try, and that one knows what the first fighter will do in return.   It looks like they’re just standing there, but really the whole combat has happened inside their heads.” Concentrating on his low murmur made it easier to ignore the noise level in the room, and all the hips and elbows bumping carelessly into whoever happened to be nearest.

 

The fight was over a few heartbeats later.  Phasma’s opponent pivoted around her, attempting some sort of complicated-looking joint lock from behind.  There was a flash of silver as her foot snaked backward, another as her arm went up over her own head, and before Mitaka could fully process the individual maneuvers, her opponent was on the mat in front of her with her hand at his throat.  He tapped on the mat three times before she withdrew her hand and let him shakily get to his feet. The applause was deafening.

 

He could still mostly hear the words behind his ear, though.  “So what I want you to do is _respond_ , like a conversation.  Like somebody’s just said something unexpected, but you need to give them an appropriate answer.” Oh.  Like a last-minute change in diplomatic personnel, that needed on-the-spot research and discreet delivery of appropriate personal information.   The room was getting even louder as the troopers offered congratulations to Captain Phasma and commentary on the match.

 

Mitaka couldn’t hear the next thing FN-2187 said, he could barely hear his own thoughts in all the chaos.  Was every trooper on the roster in here at the same time? Surely some of them were scheduled for other things right now.  He ought to know the answer to that but he couldn’t _think_ and there wasn’t enough air in here; he didn’t know what the other man had said, so he turned his head to watch the trooper’s mouth.   Only he wasn’t speaking now, he was studying Mitaka’s own face. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.” A hand circled his wrist; he could focus his attention on the pressure instead of all the _noise_ and the too many people as they made their way to the exit.  The tugging at his arm stopped and the fingers fell away again, once they’d reached the door.

 

The trip to the smaller, individual training room was thankfully silent by comparison.  But according to the chronometer on the wall, their time was finished for the day. “I have to..”

 

FN-2187 nodded.  “Go, I know. Tomorrow I want you to give me an answer that I can’t predict.”  The grin was accompanied by a raised eyebrow this time, like a ...challenge? Mitaka wasn’t sure he had the capacity to be that surprising.  But he could try.

 

\---------

 

It was another night full of lost hours; but somewhere while the water boiled for tea, the tub filled, and Millicent worked her unique magic, the previous night’s words crystallized.  It was a flowchart. Inside his head, it was an if/then but sort of branching, allowing for multiple responses to the same maneuver. If he added the number of times he’d used a given tactic in response to the same move, factored FN-2187’s own preferences and favored sequences (he did have them, they’d just been really difficult to spot; but Mitaka had seen him spar many times outside of their instruction), and allowed for enough variation, he could do this.  He could.

 

He lost some more sleep reviewing the plan; well, the plan for what to do with no plan, and that was an extremely unsettling concept.  Mitaka was on time for the next day’s session, but it hadn’t been easy. The trooper frowned as he came into the room. “You all right?”  Mitaka looked down at himself; nothing was out of place, a glance at the chronometer told him he wasn’t late. “You look…” What? What had he forgotten?  FN-2187 shook his head and gave Mitaka his usual smile. “Never mind. Ready?” That was more like things as they should be; he assumed a fighting stance.

 

They started with one of the first patterns he’d learned.  Halfway through, instead of feinting a kick to the left, as he was meant to do, Mitaka feinted a strike to the right and made the kick at the left a genuine one.  He got two raised eyebrows and a pleased-sounding grunt for his efforts. FN-2187 responded with a wide swing of the staff; usually Mitaka would have ducked it, but he knew his instructor liked to follow that with a sweep, which would pull his legs right out from under him.  Now was the time to do something different. Instead, he moved into the space where the staff had just been, then behind the other man’s shoulder.

 

This would have put him in the perfect position for a takedown...except that he’d underestimated the breadth of the staff’s arc.  The backswing caught him directly across the ribs and into his solar plexus; and suddenly he was flat on his back and there was a black-clad knee moving toward his unprotected throat and the trooper’s face had that same intent, serious look, the one that said he was fully engaged in the back-and-forth of attack and defense.  The one that didn’t look like training.

 

Mitaka knew he was supposed to roll away, that was the counter-move for this, except he couldn’t move.  Or breathe. Or tap the mat, well, of course, that would involve moving. Or...he needed to say something fast, or breathing was shortly going to become completely impossible after that knee and all the weight behind it hit his trachea.  The trooper’s designation suddenly seemed impossibly long; he tried to say “FN-2187, stop, I need a minute,” or anything that remotely resembled that sentence, but all his wheezing lungs would produce was “...’Seven, _stop_!”  He couldn’t even get an arm in front of his face.

 

The response was instantaneous.  The trooper looked shocked, like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water at him.  He shifted his weight in mid air, landing heavily on his hip on the mat next to Mitaka, arms slapping to either side to minimize the impact, and just lay there for a moment before getting to his knees to examine Mitaka’s face.  Those few seconds were enough for Mitaka to regain his breath with a whoop and a rush of air. Ouch. He’d better get up so they could keep going.

 

A hand on his shoulder pinned him in place.  “No, don’t move.” He couldn’t have if he’d wanted, under that grip, though it wasn’t hurting him at all.  “Hang on. Where’d I hit you?” He looked worried. Mitaka waved a vague hand across his ribs, directly below his sternum.  “Oh, yeah, that would do it, no wonder you didn’t say anything.” A second hand roved over the ribs in question, carefully prodding each of them in turn.  It should have been...invasive, like being tickled or engaged in spontaneous wrestling matches had been, all those years ago at home, before the sibs had finally figured out just how much he disliked that.  But the touch was limited to where he’d been hit, gentle as it could be, and the intent was clear. And it was just...different. He found he didn’t mind.

 

The grin was relieved, this time.  How many different smiles could one man have?  “Nothing broken. You have definitely succeeded in surprising me.  Mind you, I don’t recommend leaping into the path of your opponent’s weapon as an ongoing battle tactic...but that was excellent for your first attempt.  You okay?” Mitaka nodded, still regaining the wind just knocked out of him. The trooper’s head tilted to one side. “Seven, huh? I like that.” Oh. Wow.  One man could have quite a few smiles; this one was like seeing sunrise over a new planet, from orbit; bright and somehow unexpected.

 

His instructor bounced to his feet with enviable ease, reaching a hand out to Mitaka, who was gradually beginning to sound less like a landed fish.  “You could call me Seven...if you wanted. I mean, it would be easier, if you needed to get my attention fast, right?” It would. Mitaka nodded, and clasped the extended hand to pull himself to his feet, a second hand grasping his upper arm to steady him as his bruised ribs made themselves known and he involuntarily hissed at the ache.  He could feel the easy strength on his arm, holding him in place, and the now-familiar landscape of warmth and roughness against his own slimmer fingers.

 

FN-2187--Seven--winced at the sound he’d made, as though it were his ribs that had been hit.  Odd, since Mitaka hadn’t yet managed to land a shot. “So I think we’re done for today. Make sure you schedule yourself some time to ice those, or you might not be able to move at all tomorrow.”  He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sorry about that. I didn’t have time to pull the strike, which is good news when it comes to your progress, but…” he waved the hand in the general direction of Mitaka’s middle, “not so much for you, personally speaking.  Medical will tell you more or less the same thing, if you ask them. Trust me, they’ve dealt with me more times than I think they can count.”

 

Well, that was hyperbole.   It was true that there were a lot of visits to Medical in his records; fewer recently, which did argue for his having learned how to manage minor injuries on his own.  Medical exams were to be endured as needed; but it was always good to avoid being poked and prodded, if you could.

 

\---------

 

It was sound advice, and Mitaka took it.  A little extra time before bed and a cold pack requisition weren’t terribly difficult, and he could always go for an exam if that didn’t help.  They didn’t have another session until later in the week, since the troopers would be busy with large-formation maneuvers. His sleep was fortunately uninterrupted, since the General’s had been, for those few days.  Well, it wasn’t interrupted by the need to wander the corridors in the middle of the sleep cycle. His own thoughts, or more specifically his dreams, were not nearly as cooperative.

 

Mitaka expected to dream about the sparring; it was inevitable, with the same motions repeated over and over, that his mind would keep practicing. The maneuvers were stuck in his head like a song.

 

His dreams often featured things he did by day. Once in a while a new idea or protocol would present itself that way.  Occasionally he dreamed of home, his old home, so full of raucous energy and slaps on the back and all the vaguely discomforting things he'd known were born out of affection.  He missed them, sometimes, the sibs, and all their loving noise.

 

The focus of these new dreams weren't the techniques he was learning, though. The trooper's face, Seven's face, drifted before his sleeping eyes. His laugh, so open and unstudied, sounded in Mitaka's ears, a joyful klaxon whose warning, he would later think, he should perhaps have heeded.  Warning: impending solitude breach. Most alarms, though, weren't so sodding beautiful.

 

His dreams, treacherous things, insisted on showing him exactly how beautiful. The double curve of his bicep, deceptively delicate for the strength it indicated. His own were straight as sticks. The line of Seven's thigh, stretching the fabric of the bodysuit where it nudged at Mitaka's  leg, correcting his stance while those hands (hands!, a new alarm sounded, we know those hands!) were occupied with a staff, or in adjusting the rest of his hopeless, awkward self.

 

\---------

 

He still felt strange, still struggled to get to his training session on time, when the next session appeared on his schedule. It wasn’t the hour.  This training session was in mid-afternoon. Things had changed. Possibly everything had changed. Mitaka knew he should be his usual impeccable self (well, as impeccable as he could possibly be out of regulation uniform doing something for which he was entirely unsuited), but he felt sluggish and clumsy and in need of gallons of caf. Of course, there had been some...unusual circumstances.  

 

Mitaka put a hand to his own throat, thinking about what had happened earlier that same day.  Instability in someone already outside the normal chain of command wasn’t something he could calculate, could regulate and repair.  Like the mechanical flaws programmed into the strategic simulations, he couldn’t account for that last percentage, for Kylo Ren; couldn’t have predicted that a few words would have him flung across the bridge choking on nothing and gasping for air.  He suspected his dreams tonight would be just as disturbing, if entirely less pleasant.

 

Seven turned from the weapons rack with a delighted grin, though, and alongside the tired feeling came a sizzling in his nerves that felt like maybe he’d already had too much caf for his own good.  He could do this; and to his surprise, he wanted to be here, to be doing exactly what he was. The smile faltered as Seven caught sight of him, replaced with something that looked like...horror? Outrage?  Confusion? The trooper crossed the room in a few quick strides. “Kriffing hell.” His hand rose toward Mitaka’s neck, fingers twitching, then slowly dropped back to his side. “What happened to you?”

 

Mitaka started to tell him, but he couldn’t breathe.  He could almost feel the phantom fingers again, stopping his breath, and the helpless feeling as he’d hit the bulkhead behind him. He hadn’t really had more than a moment to think, when the argument started between Ren and the General, other than the fleeting but firm notion that General Hux was far more important to the First Order than he was.  And that if Ren had forgotten himself enough to appear bareheaded on the bridge, he’d known it was going to be _bad_.

 

So he’d walked over between them, bold as you please and louder than he usually dared to speak, to...pester Lord Ren (there was really no other word for it) about a requisition form for more sparring droids.  His Knights really *did* go through them at a ridiculous rate, but Mitaka knew perfectly well that there was no need for Kylo Ren to be personally involved in the acquisition of replacements. It was just a tactic, like the feints Seven had taught him.  Divert your opponent’s attention from something valuable, get them away from it, and make them see what you wanted them to see.

 

And it had worked, just like those feints were meant to do.  Those mad eyes, that seemed to burn despite their darkness, had slid away from the General and fastened on him.  He’d had just enough time to notice the compromised state of his airway ( _where was all the_ **_oxygen,_ ** _who’d let all the atmosphere drain out from the bridge)_ before his back had impacted the bulkhead and he couldn’t see _or_ breathe.  Ren had stalked off the bridge without a word.  Medical had said his ribs were bruised, not broken.  It was fine. Things would keep going as they should.

 

“I...it…,” his brain and tongue both stuttered in place as his eyes closed.  No. He was here to be better, stronger than he was before. It was just another lesson. There was nothing here to interfere with his need for air, not really. The hand that had shied away from touching his neck came back, resting on his arm.  It helped. He opened his eyes, firmed his jaw and, for once, gave Seven a grin of his own. “It’s nothing. I...said something I shouldn’t have. It’s fine. Can we…” He could feel the grin get wider. “I want to say something unexpected today.”

 

The trooper’s eyebrow rose at that, his whole face alight, and he laughed.  Stars, Mitaka was really beginning to love that sound. He was...what? This time it was his heart that stuttered in place.  Oh, no, thinking of that laugh, those grins, as incentive would be...a very bad idea. He gave himself a silent, stern scolding.  Back to work. Seven was talking to him. “Yeah, okay. You sure you’re all right? I can’t imagine where you could have gotten those…”  The sentence stopped in mid-stream as he searched Mitaka’s face, seemingly finding something that told him it would be better to drop the subject.  “Okay. We can start.”

 

It was tough going, at first.  They worked their way through patterns, Seven’s and his.  Mitaka was still distracted, still slower and shakier than he expected from himself.  And his instructor noticed. The trooper waved at him, calling a halt. “Hold on.” He frowned, peering at Mitaka’s face again.  Why was he always _doing_ that?  What did he think he was going to find?  There were plenty of answers and information to be had inside his head, but lately none of it was much use.  It hadn’t kept him off the bulkhead. No, that was not a constructive thought. That was a thought that made his hands shake.  He needed them steady.

 

“You look...tired.  Listen, I know I gave you assignments, but I didn’t mean…” Seven frowned at him.  “You _are_ sleeping, right?  You’re not, um, giving up rest to work on something I gave you, are you?”  Of course he was. Where else exactly was he going to find room for practice, for research and strategy and planning to not have a plan?  And the dreams...but he was certainly not going to mention those. “Because…” he sounded so much less certain than usual as the rest emerged in a rush.  “You’re not going to learn as well if you’re as exhausted as I think you are. So you need to remember to take care of yourself.” He was flushed...was he angry?

 

He gestured, a wide wave of his arm at the training room in general.   “...for the lessons, I need you in your best shape.” That did make sense.  Mitaka could feel that he wasn’t performing as well as he should be. He wouldn’t put up with that from any other person (or piece of equipment, for that matter) around here.  He should hold himself to the same standard. “Otherwise we might have to skip one so you can get some sleep.” The trooper didn’t sound like he liked that idea any more than Mitaka did himself.  Would Seven be reprimanded if the training wasn’t going well? Or worse, sent to reconditioning?

 

That idea scared him more than it should.  Reprimands and reconditioning were normal, just part of the Stormtrooper program; but he felt panicky at the thought.  “Don’t, please. I can do better.” He’d heard those words before, he thought, somewhere. They weren’t quite the ones he wanted.  “Can we try again?” That was more like it. He hefted the staff and set his stance. “I haven’t surprised you yet.” The peal of laughter he got for that certainly sounded as though he had.  A nod, and Seven’s face turned serious again as he shifted into his own fighting stance.

 

It was easier than he’d thought, in the end.  It was just a matter of doing something the trooper had never taught him to do.  Ducking to one side, getting behind the opponent, rolling out of the way were all part of the existing array of responses.  But there wasn’t anything in their lessons so far that suggested getting _closer_ to your opponent.  It had changed things on the bridge, though.  It was a perfectly valid tactic, wasn’t it? Even more so, when you weren’t in opposition to some terrifying magical force of chaos.  Mitaka was not a fan of chaos.

 

So this time, when the staff had gone shooting forward (that would have _hurt_ , he had time to think, if it had connected), Mitaka went forward too, turning until his back was pressed against his instructor’s chest.  Not sure what to do next, he braced his hand on a--very solid!--arm, rolled over Seven’s hip despite the protest from his ribs until he was behind the other man again (which got him a shocked noise--progress, he thought), then hooked his foot across an instep and around, and _yanked_.

 

For a moment, it was perfect.  Seven went down on his back with an _oof_ as though someone had dialed up the gravity, hands smacking the mat.  

 

And then reality reasserted itself as Mitaka attempted to get out of the way, tripped over Seven, his staff, and his own sodding _feet_ and landed in a supremely ungraceful heap, pain lancing through his ankle and his ribs making their displeasure known at this further mistreatment.  He wasn’t sure whether he’d made a noise.

 

There was a sound from the man lying next to him on the mat.  Was he _clapping_ ?  “Now _that_ was impressive.  I haven’t even taught you a sacrifice throw, or any other move that involves taking yourself down along with your opponent. I mean, I normally wouldn’t recommend that either, because…we’ll get to that in a minute.  What even made you think to move toward me after that strike? And what was that noise? But you scored on me, well done!”

 

He rolled up onto his knees, looking as pleased as he sounded until he turned and saw Mitaka.  “Wait, you didn’t mean take yourself down with me, did you?” The celebratory tone was gone from his voice as he got a better look.  “Oh, no, come on, what did you do to yourself now?” He was shaking his head, bemused and concerned in equal measure.

 

Mitaka thought about getting to his feet.  His ankle also had thoughts about that, angry, painful thoughts that led to his mouth making sounds like meat sizzling in a pan, or an unhappy cat.  “It’s not a big deal. I just twisted my ankle. It’s fine.” If he got to his hands and knees, he could probably, maybe, stand on his other foot. That was plausible.  It involved a lot of bending his torso around, which invited further thoughts from what seemed like the entire middle of his body, but they weren’t as loud as the ones from his ankle.  He could live with that.

 

Seven had already risen to his feet, nimble as always, and was frowning down at him.  “I think you might be using that word wrong. Can I...is it okay if I help you? Please?”  He blew out a frustrated-sounding breath. “There’s no way you’re making it anywhere on that, I can already tell.  Ice isn’t going to do it this time. You’re going to need bacta on that, and you’re going to need to stay off of it for a little while, at least.”  

 

He looked around the room.  “We can’t stay in here, somebody else is going to need the room.  We could go to the barracks,” the absolute NO firing inside Mitaka’s brain at that idea must have filtered through to his face.  The concept of having his ankle swathed in bacta in rooms full of the ship’s entire complement of stormtroopers set his heartbeat to thudding beside his _nose_ , which was a very odd place for it to be.  “Or not. Or...I could help you get back to your quarters, which are probably nowhere near here, and which would have us traipsing across half this ship, and…” Mitaka’s frantic nodding was a not very subtle agreement.  “...that’s what we’re doing. Okay then.” He found himself in the now-familiar position of looking up at an outstretched hand and arm.

 

\---------

 

Seven insisted on donning his armor again before helping Mitaka back to his quarters. That was correct, he knew; the trooper would get in trouble if he were discovered out of uniform anywhere but the training rooms or the barracks.   But it seemed wrong, somehow, for his instructor to be FN-2187 again, back inside the anonymity of his armor, looking like any other soldier. He wasn’t just any other soldier, not any more.

He had one of Mitaka’s arms over his shoulders, and the trooper’s other arm was wrapped around his waist.  It set the bruises on his back afire, but he tried his best not to show it. They limped and hopped their way to his quarters. The thought occurred to him that he'd avoided having a medic poke and prod him only to be hanging on very closely to Seven. For some reason, though, he was once again strangely unbothered.  It only bothered him that the armor felt cold.

 

\---------

 

He expected the trooper to leave after Mitaka palmed the door open.  He knew Seven had somewhere else to be in the near future; but he found himself being escorted all the way to his bed.

 

"What's that noise?"  FN-2187 was looking around the room.

 

"Oh. That's my chronometer. I re-programmed it to sound like an ancient pendulum clock I heard in a holovid. I just...I like the sound, the tick-tock. It helps me sleep, which..." He looked around his bare, functional living space.  "...is all I really have time to do in here anyway." And not much of that, really, especially not if General Hux was having a bad night or Mitaka had research to do. It was enough; he could get by on what he was getting.

 

When he turned back, FN-2187 had taken off his helmet again. He looked thoughtful. "I like it. It's a good, steady sound. You like to hear the time counting, while it's happening, don't you? You like to always know when and where you are, so you know what happens next. You keep your bacta and stuff in the 'fresher?" He ambled off to check.

 

Mitaka stared at him. How could he have possibly understood?  How did he know where Mitaka kept his things? That he had medical supplies in his quarters?  And what exactly was he proposing to do?

 

He was still talking, as he came back with the medical supplies. "Give me your foot.  Anyway, it sounds like part of your name, the "Tock" part does. It suits you." He grinned up at Dopheld.  Suited him? For what? “Well, what if I need to get _your_ attention in a hurry?  Lieutenant Mitaka. It’s even more of a mouthful than my designation.  And it’s only fair.” Oh. A name, like he’d accidentally given Seven. It made his face feel warm; and then the rest of him, as careful hands pushed up the cuff of his pants to assess the damage.

 

Seven was busily wrapping bacta patches around Mitaka’s ankle as he kept speaking.  He did like to talk, this trooper. “There. You’re all set, Tock. But I can come back later, to make sure, so you’ve got no excuse for missing the next session.”  He glanced up as he sealed the last patch, his face...hopeful? Mitaka was nodding again, even though there was really no reason for his instructor to come back and check on the progress of his twisted ankle.

 

He frowned.  Why would he need or want to miss their next session?  "Of course I won’t. It's on the schedule. Speaking of which," he glanced at the chronometer in question, "you'd better get going. You're due for a briefing in 20 minutes. Take the shortcut past the compactor or you'll never make it."

 

The grin got wider. "I will if I run!" This announcement was made over his shoulder as the door opened with a hiss.

 

"It's against regulations to..." A second hiss. "...run."

 

\---------

 

It was almost time to sleep when Seven came back.  Mitaka opened the door to a trooper (out of uniform, what was he _thinking_?) who couldn’t seem to stop moving.  He was excited, practically electrified. “I’ve got an on-planet mission, Tock!”  He was grinning and waving his hands as he spoke. “My first one. I’ve never been planetside before.  This is it, this is what I’ve been training to do my whole life!” He was thoroughly delighted. Meanwhile Mitaka was frozen in place.  “Mission” meant fighting, at which Seven was ludicrously talented, really; but fighting meant…

 

The trooper turned back to him.  “Oh, right, let me see your ankle.”  He set a hand under Mitaka’s elbow, guiding him back to the bed.  It looked a lot better, Mitaka knew. He’d taken a look himself; but he sat, and gave his foot over for examination.  “That looks like it’ll be back to normal in no time. Good.” Seven smiled, face tilted upwards where he knelt at the foot of the bed with Mitaka’s foot in his hands.  Mitaka swallowed, with some difficulty, thinking about what tomorrow might mean. He hadn’t, when he’d written the mission specs and scheduling. Assigning the particular troopers for a mission was Captain Phasma’s job.  He hadn’t thought…

 

The smile was quickly replaced with worried inquiry.  “Tock, what is it? Are…” he hesitated. “Are the bruises on your neck worse?  They look...they’ve gotten darker. Why didn’t you put some bacta on those, too?”  Seven got up to sit on the bed next to him, his fingers hesitating, then brushing lightly over the bruises as he shivered. “Sorry.  Did I hurt you?” The trooper’s other hand braced flat against his back, startling a flinch out of him. “What...kriff, there too?” He pulled at the hem of Mitaka’s shirt, eyes asking for permission, continuing at a nod.  “Stars, Tock! Was this from the same...what _happened_ to you?”  His eyes narrowed, face stormy.

 

Mitaka shook his head.  “It’s not that. Nothing’s broken.  That’s not important.” The other man’s expression was mutinous at that statement, but he stayed silent, waiting for Mitaka to finish.  “It’s...you’re going to Jakku, aren’t you?” His throat did feel tight, almost as though a phantom hand was squeezing it again, and his eyes were burning with things he didn’t want to say, or even think.

 

“Yes, why?” Seven paused his assessment of the bruising, looking at him in that way he had -- as though Mitaka’s face held all the most important information, the key to whatever came next.  Comprehension dawned. “Oh. Are you worried about me?” He sounded inordinately pleased and slightly sorry, all at once. “Hey, you don’t have to worry, it’s me. They’d hardly have me teaching you how to fight if I wasn’t any good at it, would they?”  This was a new grin, cocky and insouciant, and as quickly sobered. “Look. I know. I haven’t gone...I’ve just been training; but I know. Sometimes fighters don’t come back.” Mitaka was shaking his head, back and forth, in denial of the entire concept.

 

He knew _exactly_ what could happen, and had happened, when Stormtroopers were deployed in earnest.   It was part of his job, to make sure reports got back to General Hux, and so he reviewed footage, when it was available, reports made by commanders and those in the field.  And more significantly, it was part of his work to present the General with casualty reports, including the most common injuries, from minor to major. Sometimes these included reports from the morgue.  He’d been doing this for some time; they were statistics, numbers, sorted and catalogued by type and severity and frequency.

 

Now, though, now it was _real_.  He knew Seven’s face, his smiles, his laugh, the press of his hand and the heat of him as they sparred, and he couldn’t reduce the coming action to just numbers any more.   Now he understood, every designation was a person, and the man in front of him was more important than any after action report could possibly reflect, even if Mitaka wasn’t quite sure when that had happened.  How was he meant to give the careful and objective information upon which the General depended if all he could think about was what could happen to one lone trooper? Divided loyalties wouldn’t help anyone.

 

“Listen, Tock.”  The new nickname made him want to smile, it fell so naturally into the space between them; but he couldn’t make his face obey.  “If tomorrow...if I don’t…” Mitaka’s hands had risen in front of him, as though to fend off the rest of the sentence, his face still moving side to side with _no_.  “Come on, you have to let me...I’ve got to say this.”  Seven took both of Mitaka’s hands in his, as though he hoped that might still the silent negation in the movement of his head.  

 

With an exasperated sigh that managed to sound...fond?, he continued.  “If I don’t come back, I want you to know that this _means_ something, you _mean_ something to me.  Teaching you hasn’t been nearly as important as _learning_ you; brilliant, adaptable, dedicated, capable.  You soak up new things like a sponge, you persist, and no matter what, you do what needs to be done.  And...” Seven was _blushing_ , Mitaka thought with something akin to astonishment.  “...as a bonus, you’re easy on the eyes. So if this is the last chance I have…”  If the trooper’s face was warm, Mitaka though, his own felt like it was covered in frost and snow.

 

Seven moved his hands to either side of Mitaka’s face.  “No, don’t look like that. If this is the only chance I get, then I just wanted you to know…”  His gaze moved from Mitaka’s eyes to his mouth, then back to his eyes again. “Okay?” Mitaka nodded, not entirely sure what agreement he’d just made, and then Seven was _kissing_ him and his mind went, for once, entirely still.  Thoughts of statistics and reports and wounds, schedules and meetings and panic, fell by the wayside and there was nothing but sensation, as though there had been a short between Mitaka’s brain and his mouth.  The hands at his face slid down to fold around his back, so gently that his bruises made no protest at all.

 

His hands rose, apparently of their own accord, to touch Seven’s arms, his shoulders, and he should say something, should be somehow an active participant in what they were doing right now.  He felt as though all the random mechanical faults programmed into ship-to-ship battle simulations were happening at once, mental gears seizing with a creak; he supposed his mouth must be doing something appropriate, as the other man hummed in approval, but he had no real idea what that might be.  After a few moments, maybe, Seven withdrew, tilting his head with a smile softer than any Mitaka had seen before, full of wonder and touched with joy. His own mouth opened and shut again without any noise, and he knew he was staring, eyes wide.

 

Seven waited a few seconds, minutes?  Was he meant to say something? The wiring between Mitaka’s thoughts and his words was evidently still faulty; shock and amazement and happiness and the fear he’d felt when he realized what tomorrow would mean all sparked and crackled inside.   He couldn’t seem to find his voice, couldn’t seem to move, anxiety and bewilderment and a frisson of excitement roiling behind unbreakable stillness, a paralysis of confusion.

 

The pleased, almost tender look directed his way slipped, doubt taking its place.  Seven spoke in a whisper, with a dark undercurrent that might be shame, no, that was wrong, he had nothing about which he should be ashamed, that was important, but Mitaka was still helplessly stuck.  “I...I’m sorry. I thought...I was wrong. You didn’t, you weren’t… I shouldn’t have done that.” He ducked his head, slanted it sideways to look at the chronometer, now startlingly loud in the silence after he’d finished.  

 

The next words had a tone Mitaka had never heard from Seven before.  He sounded...defeated. “I...the muster starts early, tomorrow. I should go.  I…” He screwed his eyes shut. It was late. Wasn’t it? How long had it been? “I hope we can just forget about this.  I don’t want to scare you away from our lessons.” They flew open again, his voice intense, thick with some emotion. “You need to know how to defend yourself.  That’s important. _You’re_ important.  I hope you know that.  You need to look after yourself, especially if I...can’t.”  Those deep brown eyes urged him to understand; whole galaxies seemed to spin in their depths.

 

When Mitaka’s nervous system failed to rally enough to produce a response, Seven sighed.  “I hope I’ll see you at our next session. Um. Goodbye, Tock. Uh, Lieutenant, until...sorry.  Goodbye.”

 

The twin hisses as the door opened, then closed behind the trooper, echoed in the room, now emptier than it had any right to be with Mitaka still in it.  He sat perfectly still for, he knew, several minutes more. He had the chronometer to measure it, after all. It wasn’t until his back twinged, threatening to stiffen with the lack of movement and the rigidity of his posture, that the rest of him came back to life.  Oh. No. He should have said something. He should have said everything.

 

_No, you’re the important one.  Take care of you. Stay safe. I want more.  I liked this. I like *you*. I’m terrified that you won’t come back to me and terrified that you will.  I’ve never wanted to touch anyone as much as I do you, or really at all, and I want you to come back here and do that again and never, ever leave.  I want to learn from you and laugh with you and kiss you again and kiss you *back* like I should have just now and you are the only person I have ever wanted this close to me._

 

All of the things he should have said tumbled over and under each other in Mitaka’s mind.  Wait, he thought. He knew where the barracks were. He could still...there would be so many people.  But he could. His feet were in his shoes before he even knew he’d left the bed and he was grinning, wide enough to split his face in half, certain that he looked like an idiot and absolutely sure he didn’t care, because the lingering heat on his ankle, at his hands, in his mouth told him all he really needed to know. He should be sleeping, he’d be up early himself at the General’s side as the troops were assembled, and he did. not. care, because this might be the bravest and most significant thing he had ever thought about doing.

 

He was at the door, palm extended, when the noise started, overwhelming against the quiet background of his own thoughts.  It was the decibel alarm for General Hux’s quarters. He was needed, for the good of the Order, for the good of the upcoming mission, to make things _work_.  It was second nature by now, to pad down the corridor as he had so many times before, it was his duty, it was what he did and who he was.  Seven had said it himself. Mitaka did what needed to be done, and loyalty was part of that. Anything else he might be had to wait.

 

There in the darkness of the General’s quarters, Mitaka went through a routine intended for the comfort of someone else.  Tea, sounds, bath, Millicent...it was as bad, he thought, as the first one of these...episodes that he’d seen. General Hux was out of bed and standing in the middle of the room, hair sticking out to one side, eyes glassy, arms trembling as though with cold.  Mitaka tried not to listen, he always did, but his attention was caught as the General muttered, louder than his usual wont.

 

_No, I can take it.  No one else need be hurt.  It’s my place to endure, my responsibility._

_Leave him alone.  Let him BE._

 

And Mitaka knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that those words, distinct and full of conviction amid the usual vague murmurs, were the result of today’s events.  Somewhere his superior regretted that Mitaka had stepped between him and the anger of another, even as he unwittingly kept him from being where he most wanted and needed to go.  It was bad.  Seven and the other troopers would be well and truly asleep by the time he was finished here; but he was needed.  He couldn’t listen any longer. Tuning out the low mumble still sounding behind him, Mitaka leaned against the wall while the water heated for tea, dropped his head onto his arms, wondered if he’d ever get this chance again...and cried.

**Author's Note:**

> I do fully intend to rescue these poor foolish children from their cliffhangery, angsty fate, not sure when, but I do, so don't hate me. I thought it would be nice if they had their own nicknames for each other. I imagine General Hux has quite a few nightmares in his repertoire, and I thought it would be interesting if someone was handling them with perfect discretion so he could be the every-hair-in-place deadly General we know. Any sparring moves are largely based on my having watched a LOT of Aikido over the last half a decade. Watching two very, very highly trained black belts spar really DOES look like they're doing nothing but holding onto each other's jackets, it's sort of fascinating. And Millicent because of COURSE Millicent.


End file.
